Gorgeous photo from the part of the world where MB grew up by photographer Galen Rowell, who also lived in the deep dark middle of nowhere until his tragic death in a plane crash in 2002.
(We don’t mention the name of the actual town on this blog.)
.
I love being able to see a place that’s become so familiar to me through completely new eyes.
More spectacular photos here. Go check them out.
So, yeah, the adorable sarahk and I like to chat. We chatted on Sunday night while I was watching the rerun of the premiere of The Vampire Diaries — mainly because it was the only thing on — and she was ….. well, I don’t know what sarahk was doing. See if you can even follow this. I barely punctuate when I chat, so there’s that, and at one point, well, who knows WHAT we are even talking about.
I don’t know why it’s so hysterical to me.
me: vamp diaries looks pretty good,
i gotta say
no one quite as pretty as jack rath, but hey, not bad
sarahk: cool. i set it up to record so i can get the repeats too. looks like it may conflict with other stuff, so i might have to watch it online. sigh. oh well.
me: hm.
has a very twilighty vibe to it
almost the same set-up
sarahk: cool!
Frank just tweeted: If you start shouting at the president, soon nobody knows when to shut up.
“You lie, and I’m gonna shove this ball down your throat because Beyonce was robbed.”
me: although both the non-vamp chick and the vamp dude keep diaries
sarahk: OH! They’re showing it, and she totally DID say that!
me: what?? i missed the tweet thing?
sarahk: that’s kind of gay, the dude keeping a diary.
Oh. Well, congressman Joe Wilson the other day yelled “You lie!” at Obama.
Then the Serena thing.
me: well, i don’t know. he’s talking about how he can’t resist her. (ed: I am talking about Vampire Diaries)
i mean, he’s from another time, you know, when dudes kept diaries. people of yore
sarahk: And tonight at the VMA awards, Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift’s speech to say that Beyonce should have won. He’s a douche.
/people of yore/ Hahaha. Ok, then, it’s acceptable.
me: oh, okay. i didn’t know what the beyonce thing was about
i’m not up on the vma awards
sarahk: yeah. well, armed with all that information, frank’s tweet was funny.
me: OH! there’s an evil brother vampire! (I am STILL talking about The Vampire Diaries)
sarahk: i wouldn’t be up on them either but everyone on twitter was bagging on Kanye. i mean, that’s nothing unusual, but it was everyone.
Pink called him a douche. Hahaha. (Sarahk is NOT talking about The Vampire Diaries)
me: cool! (What was that “cool” for, Trace? The “douche” thing or the evil vampire thing? I have no idea. Drunk again.)
sarahk: oooh, evil brother vamp? excellent.
me: we are talking about two different things — hahahahaha
sarahk: I KNOW! i was just laughing at that.
me: like, we are talking over each other — in person, it would be rude, hahahaha
sarahk: I know, it would, right? oh well, we know we love each other and i’m ok with you talking over me and me talking over you.
Yes, well, good thing we love each other.
Semi-final matches tomorrow.
What I’m about to do, about to ask, I do with the permission of the person involved.
Most of you know our beloved Sheila. I’ve known her through our blogs and through our probably thousands of emails for — what? — four years now? Four years ago we stumbled across each other’s blogs — I found her, she found my drama camp posts, hahaha — and I thank GOD regularly that I know her. The impact of her in my life has been profound and true and deep, even though we’ve never met. She’s the real deal. A true blue person and the dearest friend. She’s seen me through some horrible times and I only ever want to do the same for her.
So, pippa. Our dear Sheila needs some prayer right now. She’s going through a personal hell and, no, I’m not going to divulge the details. (I will say, so that people don’t get scared, it’s not a physical/health-related issue.)
Beyond that, I think it’s enough to tell you that she needs people of prayer lifting her up.
So here’s what I’m asking:
~ That people set aside a commitment of time to pray specifically for her. You don’t need details. God knows what they are better than any of us. I’m not going to dictate what that time frame should be; people have different constraints on their time. But I’d like for people to say, “I will give this day as a day of prayer for Sheila” or “I will give this week as a week of prayer for Sheila.” Do it in your mind, your heart. I’m not asking you to say that in the comments — unless you want to. I’m asking for a commitment, yes, beyond one short prayer. Let’s give Sheila who gives so much — as you know if you read her blog — some concentrated time and effort back in her direction.
~ Also, this is key. PLEASE do not send emails to Sheila. If you want to communicate with her about this, please do so only in the comment thread here. I know you — you dear people — and know, of course, that your emails would be well-meaning, but it could just be something that’s too overwhelming right now. Let’s not place a burden on her to respond to individual emails. So, PLEASE, again — I ask with everything that’s in me — do not email her about this.
~ Of course, feel free to share your sentiments with her here. That would certainly be welcome.
~ If you’re willing and able to commit to this, please let her know that, too, in the comments. Again, you don’t need to state what your time frame will be unless you choose to do so. Just voicing your personal commitment to prayer will be meaningful.
~ That being said, I know I have readers out there who are more comfortable not commenting and who may very well commit privately to do this. That’s perfectly fine. Please don’t feel pressured to comment if it makes you uncomfortable. Public or private, the commitment is the same and equally valid.
Thank you in advance for your prayers, dear pippa.
Look at this gorgeous dapper man.
From Advanced Style. Photos by Hanneli Mustaparta
Uhm, sir? Pardon me. Hi. I know I’m a gang member and a felon and wear black underthings under white overthings, but will you marry me?
You could make me over. I am putty in your hands.
Unless you say no. Then, of course, I renounce you utterly and spend my days poking pins into a voodoo doll of your likeness wearing a miniature version of this exact suit.
Oh, and just so we’re clear: You don’t …. uhm … have any Grey Poupon? Do you?
Read the post below this before you read this one. It will make more sense.
Because I’m wiped out and yet not able to sleep and because I can hear the clacking of an upset email being sent to my inbox and because when I’m overly tired, I will overly explain myself, like I’m about to do: No. In the post below, I am not saying that a dead body is funny. Never. It was just the juxtaposition of that open trunk above that particular bumper sticker and what it all suggested to me.
I hope this saves someone some time. Please, I really do.
Nightfly’s send-up of my film noir heart. Brilliant. It was in the comments, but I had to give it its own post. (If you read this blog and you’re not reading the comments — especially lately, you are MISSING OUT. Best part of the blog.)
I’ve been in this racket a long time, and after a while you get a nose for trouble. Some people say it’s the Lord; me, I always figured that if He had to tell me wise then I wasn’t doin’ His work. Well, when she walked into the narthex, right away I could tell this dame was trouble. It wasn’t the black bra under the blouse. Dame’s got a right to wear what she wants where she don’t want guys lookin’, and I’ll bust anyone square in the chops if he don’t like it. I don’t have an NRA sticker on my car for giggles, mister.
But the vest was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a cry for help, right from the bottom of her noir heart. People hear that cry, they run – if they’re smart. Well, I’m plenty smart, smart enough to know better, but I see too many runners in my line. Usually they run to me. That’s why I’m standin’ here. The name’s Hammer – Father Mike Hammer. A collar and a Colt, that’s my angle.
Still laughing, NF. Too many geniuses reading this meager blog.
And, hey, the vest was denim and cute. Uhm, I think?? I don’t know.
Okay. Seriously. It was a cry for help.
Jenn,
I accidentally deleted your email yesterday when dealing with an attack of spam in my inbox, so I’m not able to respond to you that way. But thank you so much for your lovely email — your words really touched me, made a big difference for me. You have a generous heart. Thank you for extending a piece of it to me.
Dear blog friend Brian sent me this today — saying it was for Sheila and me — based on this post where I talk about — oh, God knows what — my gun and MB’s fantasy man date based on an NRA sticker sighting and how perky Bob violated his man space, blahdie blah. Well, the comments in that thread are insane, basically — pony rides with guns were discussed at one point, I believe — and the whole thing inspired Brian to Photoshop this bit of crazy genius:
Seriously, Brian — I mean, I emailed you already, but I could not breathe — this is killing me. Tears of laughter. And look, that is my gun exactly, my .22! Check out my little purple duds, too! Frankly, Happy Pie Tracey never looked better and, I have to say, I really want this outfit. Those shoes! Brian, you dressed me better than I dress myself, thank you.
And you have to explain how this all came about, I beg you.
LOOK AT THAT INSANE STUFFED PONY!!
Go, gun totin’ Tracey, go!! Look how manic I am about sporting a firearm. Who needs pie? I got me a GUN.
I love how those pants are just round enough in the butt to suggest a hidden diaper.
And “drunken slatterns” — hahahahaha.
I’m rambling out of my mind here. Brian, how insane and sweet and hilarious of you. I can’t believe you took the time to make this. Thank you!! You made my day!!
(Okay. I’ve exceeded my exclamation point quota for the WEEK here.)
Sarahk, you know I love you. Oh, how I love you. So I feel I must share something with you.
Something I won’t be doing for you even though I love you, oh, how I love you, blahdie blahdie blah.
I won’t, repeat WON’T, be going down to International Comic-Con 2009 — a mere, oh, five miles from me at the San Diego Convention Center — to see all the stars of Twilight: New Moon who are in town for a “panel discussion” and a screening of said movie.
Nope.
Can’t do it. The crowds, the fan boys, the costumes, they skeer me. They give me the bends and gout and cause me palpitations and kidney failure. It’s true. I’m all about truth here, as we all know. I’m a withered crone and cannot be expected to be out in that environment. I mean, if some fan boy brushed up against my brittle bones, I could turn to dust in an instant. It could be poof! no more Tracey and you wouldn’t want that, would you?
Would you?
Oh, plus — bummer — it’s all sold out and probably has been since 1573. So boo hoo hoo on that.
But, really, I still love you, Sarahk, despite all this damning evidence to the contrary.
Here’s what I will do: I will call my friend M who is a concierge at a shi-shi poo-poo hotel in la-di-dah La Jolla and see if she’s seen any Twilight celebrities, okay? She always tells me who she sees: Drunken NFL players. Marlon Brando demanding Mexican food. You know, your basic ho-hum stuff.
That I will do for you.
Honestly, Sarahk, I don’t know how much more sacrificial my love for you could be.
